Tags: exhib, voyeurism, fmasturbation, oral, vaginal

	It's 5:29 when the bus pulls up to the curb after nearly an hour of waiting in the rain. You don't blame them, of course, bus drivers aren't intentionally trying to inconvenience you. You blame yourself because you didn't think it would be bad enough to need an umbrella. You step in and press your card against the console, the driver is the black guy with a mustache and tattooed arms. He recognizes you, and you smile at each other as you make your way to your seat. Not very crowded today; one or two other people sitting in silence, on their phones or watching droplets race down the window. It's so much easier to appreciate the rain when you're not standing ankle-deep in it.
	
	You move your way to the far back, where the seats face each other, rather than forward. The outside of your bag is damp, but it's always done a good job of keeping your shit dry. You pull out a book and decide to get some reading done early for once. You spend some time learning about the riveting correlation between the decline of both polytheistic religion and hieroglyphic languages, and the proportional rise of monotheism and alphabetic languages throughout history, trying your best to stay awake.
	
	The bus makes a stop and a girl gets on. The scrolling ticker display near the front of the bus says it's 5:38, and you only just passed Hayes St. You suspect it'll take a little less than an hour to get home, given the weather. The girl moves to the very back of the bus and, incidentally, sits directly across from you. You turn your gaze up from the dense, word-filled pages to catch a glimpse at her in the least creepy way you can manage.
	
	Slender frame, light skin and long, straight brown hair that goes down to her chest, all neatly wrapped up in a scarf thick enough to also cover most of her face. A cardigan with sleeves long enough to reach past her wrists, so that just her fingers poke out. Pleated skirt with tights underneath, just thin enough for the tone of her skin to be visible through the fabric. She catches you looking for a split second. You return to your book, slightly flustered.
	
	You keep track of her out of the corner of your eye. She's still looking at you, and keeps fidgeting in her seat. You keep yourself and the book aligned so that just her shoulders and above are visible, hoping that occasional quick glance is less noticeable. She slouches a bit, still watching you. You can't focus in the least, the words on the page become indistinct smudges as your thoughts race. You look up one last time and lock eyes. You put your book down with the intent of asking something along the lines of “Excuse me miss, is something the matter? You've been staring at me for a while now,” hoping she'd forgotten about the obvious hypocrisy.
	
	She's... jerking off. Her tights are rolled halfway down her thighs, she's slumped forward in her seat and her skirt is flipped up against her stomach. She's got two fingers inside herself, slowly curling them in and out, dampening her sleeve and dripping a little on the floor with every retraction. It seemed your attention only encouraged her, her idle hand climbing up her shirt and groping at her own modest chest. 
	
	The world seems to slow down for a brief moment. Everything, including yourself, stalling to a fraction of its normal speed as you observed the obscene spectacle. She pulls at her scarf to taste herself on her fingers. Her chest heaving raggedly as she tried to stifle her involuntary moans, all the while never breaking eye contact.
	
	Time resumes once again as you awaken from your stupor. She looks down, noticing the bulge in your pants the same time you do. Her mouth is open, salivating as she tries to find breath. She nods to her left, to the empty seat beside her. Play it cool, you tell yourself. Look around, there's barely anyone onboard, and they're all near the front. The time reads 5:53. You get up, normally, inconspicuously, take a step forward, and sit beside her. She leans in, whispering in your ear “Take it out,” eagerly climbing onto the seat with her knees tucked underneath her in preparation. She smells like vanilla.
	
	You unzip your jeans with the kind of steady caution usually reserved for bomb defusal specialists. Her deft little fingers crawl lightly against your leg towards your crotch to help, gently feeling the outline of your cock through your boxers before reaching in to pull it out herself. She guides your hand towards her crotch in kind, silently instructing you how to use your fingers. Her hips buck and squirm in the air at your touch, quickly becoming soaked with her excitement.
	
	She's leaning over your lap, barely inches away from your sensitive, throbbing flesh. Every soft breath and gasp making you shudder pleasurably. She presses her cute, pouty little lips against the head with agonizing tenderness, wetting it before taking it in her mouth, little by little. She's good. So good, in fact, you get lost in the warmth of her elaborate tongue-dance enough to forget about your own task. She takes your hand again, clumsily pushing your fingers around inside her to remind you.
	
	A moan resonates from deep in her throat, long and drawn out, almost animalistic and likely involuntary. She continues until her face pressed against your lap, your hand is nestled in the wetness between her thighs and your cock so deep in her airways you wonder if she has any gag reflex at all.
	
	You remember to check your surroundings; 6:02, just passed the transit hub. Maybe another half hour. The rain has let up, and it's getting dark out. One other person has gotten on the bus, closer than the rest, but clearly immersed in whatever he's listening to. You try to keep a cool head while hers bounces vigorously along the length of your shaft. 
	
	You're getting close, and it doesn't seem like she's going to stop teasing it out of you anytime soon. Take deep, controlled breaths. You close your eyes and lean back against the window. You turn toward the front of the bus, watching the oncoming road pass through the front windshield. You continue massaging her, occasionally pressing your fingers up into her flesh with increasing firmness. She breaks her lips free of you and gasps loudly, lewdly. If anyone heard it, they'd almost assuredly suspect there are some illicit public sex acts currently being committed in the bus. Luckily, no one turned, no one even looked up. Perhaps if they did hear, they simply pretended they didn't.
	
	She pouts, giving a look both accusatory and embarrassed. “Not here. Get off at the next stop with me,” she whispers, gliding her lips against your sensitive member. You nod slightly, despite your better judgment. She could suck you off with your pants around your ankles and demand the contents of your wallet at knifepoint-- You decide not to follow that train of thought all the way to the station. Still, she's kept you on edge for far too long. You can always walk the rest of the way home, it's not that far.
	
	The two of you make yourselves decent again, trying your best to quell the raging storm in your pants. She sits back down on the seat like a normal person, though still similarly edgy, her hand restlessly dipping between her thighs. You press the button for the next stop and wait in silence. You should ask her name. Come on, don't be scared, it's common courtesy.
	
	The bus screeches to a halt and the doors open. She takes you by the hand and the two of you disembark at a pace just below a full sprint. You're left before a poorly lit strip mall parking lot with few cars occupying the spaces. The sun has all but completely set, leaving you under a night sky with the last glimpse of sunlight receding in the west. The only thing in your immediate vicinity is a shaded bus bench, one of the kinds that have movie posters and advertisements on the sides.
	
	You lead her around back, away from the street lights and potential prying eyes in the dark, propping her back against the panel. It's not exactly private, but then again, you can't exactly wait for a better opportunity either. You unzip your jeans again, she pulls down her tights in similar fashion until you're standing facing each other with your crotches bare on a cold, soggy November evening.
	
	She wraps her fingers around you again with her delicate touch until you feel your blood flowing again. You're ready. You press into her, conjoining your hips. She's soaking wet, probably has been for a while now. Her arms languidly rest on your shoulders, gripping your jacket in anticipation. This is a bad idea.
	
	You thrust slowly at first, teasing her like she had done to you on the bus. Gently, deliberately, you extend each movement until her impatience forces her hips to rock forward to receive you. Her face is nestled between your neck and shoulder, and you feel every warm gasp on your skin. She whispers again in a ragged, desperate voice, “Don't be such a pussy, just fuck me.”
	
	Something inside you sparks and ignites at her challenge. You wrest a hand under her thigh and lift it up, locking your forearm under the pit of her knee and leaving her leg dangling in the air, spread wide. You increase the pace, pushing further and faster into her that she's beyond gasping; she's moaning impulsively, grasping at your back with her nails, standing on her tiptoes trying to get a foothold. You push her light little body further off the ground and harder against the bus stop panel with each motion. 
	
	Again, you're about to reach your climax, and you suspect she is too. Her moans have evolved to sharp cries through clenched teeth, heavy on the H's and N's. It sounds like you're directly fucking the air from her lungs. This is a terrible idea. Your movements slow back down to a more deliberate pace before you lose control. Your head goes hazy as you fill her womb. 
	
	Everything's quiet. Your heartbeat readjusts, she's panting on your neck like a marathon runner as you pull out, dripping wet. Her knees are still shaking, barely able to hold herself up if she wasn't leaning against the paneling. You zip up again, a little messy but not nearly as bad as how you left the girl. She tips forward, placing one hand on your shoulder for balance as the other awkwardly adjusts her underwear and tights.
	
	You stand there for a bit, offering her stability as her legs solidify from their previous jelly-like state. Her words come out uneven, breathless, “You should...  walk me home.” She looks up with an exhausted smile, trying to part her hair out of her face into an orderly fashion. You oblige her, of course; the poor girl looks like she just got her brains fucked out behind a strip mall parking lot.